The Dose Makes The Poison
by hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: Doctor Molly Hooper is the most respected vampirical specialist in Victorian London, so when mysterious aristocrat Mycroft Holmes engages her services for his brother Sherlock, she thinks it will be a simple case. She will soon be proved wrong, however... vamplock, eventual smut and blood. You have been warned.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: _This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement is intended. Beta read by the gorgeous Miz Joely, for whom it is a gift. (Buy her sweeties). Sexy Sherlolly vampiretimes ahead- eventually. You have been warned.

* * *

**THE DOSE MAKES THE POISON **

_**Chapter One**_

* * *

_London_

_1895_

_The Surgery of Doctor Margaret De Hopville, Vampirical Specialist _

The human was terrified as he marched into her office, but trying to hide it.

He was using the utterly predictable and thoroughly useless method of being obnoxious.

Inwardly Molly grimaced. His heartbeat hammered loudly in her ears, and his fear tasted rancid on the air, making her grit her teeth. _Needless to say, given the day she'd had this was the last thing that she needed. _Nevertheless, she forced herself not to show her fangs, or otherwise exhibit frustration: Despite the human's rudeness, there was no need for her to antagonize him or, heaven forbid, frighten him further.

_She was new to these rooms and she could hardly afford to be thrown out before she managed to reestablish her practice. _

_She would __**not **__have a repeat of Bart's. _

Apparently blithely unaware of what an effort he was putting her to, the human met her eyes boldly, glowering. He held his nose held unconscionably high too, tossing a letter onto the table before her, its seal gleaming in the light.

"I am Mycroft Holmes," he announced icily, "and that is for you."

And he gestured sharply to it, clicking his fingers as he did so. Apparently he assumed that his name would mean something to Molly but it did not. Nevertheless, she picked up the letter, though she did not yet open it. Previous experience told her that it was probably a referral from one of her own kind, and if it was then she might well be in the running for a new case- Which was the only reason she didn't snap each one of Mr. Mycroft Holmes' fingers off, post haste. A new case and the payment it would bring were worth holding one's tongue- let alone one's fangs.

_On the other hand, _she mused, _he was being __**very**_ _irritating, even for a human. _

_Perhaps she __**should**_ _just bite him. _

"Well?" Holmes snapped imperiously, still apparently blissfully unaware of his own danger. "Are you going to look at it- Or are you not the famous Doctor Hooper?"

At that her gaze snapped to him. "Why, yes I am Doctor Hooper." She shot him a sharp smile. "Not that you bothered to ascertain that before you marched into my practice and barked in my face. Tell me, are you looking for a thrill? Because you're going the right way about it."

And she let her eyes flick to his throat, the better to remind him just what she- _what __**all**_ _her kind_\- was capable of. The Long Peace may have been ratified yet again, and the vampire courts might no longer (officially) be interfering with human politics, but that did not mean that she and her brethren were to be trifled with by such as he.

_Best he remember that. _

As if reading her thoughts, she had the immense pleasure of watching Holmes step back, colour moving up his cheeks. It appeared that he had finally remembered just what he was dealing with. _Huzzah! _His eyes flicked to her fangs, the gaze lingering, and suddenly the human's ears were tinged with pink. _Experience told Molly it wasn't just with fear. _No, something else, something softer and sweeter tumbled through the room, a perfume all vampires were familiar with. A perfume that had ensured their survival for millennia. It whispered of arousal. Curiosity. A delicious, delicate wanting…

_Humans, _she mused, _were so bloody predictable. _

_It was just as well though: she wouldn't have a practice if they were not. _

Perhaps finally realizing just how much danger he was in, Holmes inclined his head slightly and retreated a step. He took a deep breath through his nose, eyes closed, and tried to bring himself back under control. The ease with which he did so bespoke a great deal of experience with vampires, and their ways. Molly could tell it was not easy; Nevertheless a moment passed, then another, and another.

Slowly his heartbeat eased. She could hear it.

Slowly, the tension in the room did likewise.

That sweet, sweet perfume lingered on the air, however and judging by the expression on his face, Mr. Holmes was well aware of the fact.

The silence stretched out, taut as a bowstring.

"Forgive me, Doctor Hooper," he said eventually. His hand went to a heavy-studded cufflinks and he tugged lightly; the blush was still making its way steadily from the tips of his ears to the back of his neck. "I fear that worry for my brother has clouded my judgement," he added. "It is about he that I have come to seek your expertise. He is my only family now, and I do not know what will become of him should you not agree to help me..."

Molly let her eyes drop to the letter between them.

"So that's what this is about?"

The human nodded. "Yes." Another flick of his eyes to her fangs. "You come recommended by the very highest authorities- My friend Lady Smallwood speaks glowingly of you, and of what you did for her husband." For a moment he looked rather like he wished to say something else, but he did not. Rather he reached into his inside pocket and took out an envelope. Passed it to Molly. "Open it," he said tersely, and then at her look, "please, Doctor Hooper, of course. Should you wish to, etc, etc, etc."

Molly shot him a narrow look but nevertheless she reached inside, fishing out a small locket. At Holmes' direction she popped it open, revealing a delicate miniature of a youth with a head of thick, shaggy curls. Fiercely bright blue-green eyes seemed to scowl back at her, the image so lifelike that Molly found herself impressed both by the artist's skill and the young man's hawkish beauty.

_He looked, _she thought, _to be awfully young, and awfully tempting for one such as she. _

"Is this your brother?" She asked, and Holmes nodded. "Is this a recent image?"

"No," he said. His voice sounded tired. "This is merely the most recent image of him I could find. His… All the others were destroyed in the fire which ravaged our family home some years ago."

And he shook his head, eyes turning haunted. Despite herself, Molly felt a tug of sympathy; Holmes gave a small shrug as if he understood. "The artist who painted that married my brother's best friend two years ago," he continued. "Mary's choice did not sit well with Sherlock. He became unhappy, and from thence bereft. Once that happened it was merely a hop, skip and a minor death wish into the Demi-monde… Or rather, into its darkest corners..."

And again Holmes shook his head to himself, his eyes far away. The scent of mortal sorrow tainted the air and Molly suspected she knew why. Such stories were common in her line of work: a broken heart, a disappointment, these were common triggers for a human becoming involved with vampires. Just as in laudanum addiction, or gambling problems, those with a crack in their heart sought solace in whatever could offer it, no matter the danger posed. And plenty within her own community were happy to provide it, she mused darkly, never mind the damage it did, to them or to the human. _Old habits die hard, for those who cannot die. _It was the scandal of London, and the British Empire more generally. _The French called it Le Vice Anglaise. _For while draining a human to the point of death was illegal, keeping a human in thrall to you was, alas, not-

_Nor was it likely to become so, given how many members of the vampirical- and British- ruling classes enjoyed doing just that. _

There were times when Molly really was disgusted with her own kind- Which was how she had ended up starting her practice in the first place.

So she looked at the young human's portrait, her annoyance at his brother easing. Whatever might be said of Mycroft Holmes, she could not blame him for wishing to protect his family, nor could she blame him for wishing to save so young a man as this. "What court is his Keeper affiliated to?" she asked and Holmes grimaced.

Again his worry perfumed the air.

"The Golden Lily," he said, his mouth twisting in distaste as he said it. "He's been living in their manor house in Covent Garden for the last five months."

Molly looked at the portrait. "Is he pledged to anyone in the house?" she asked and the human shook his head. "Thank heaven for small mercies." For the Golden Lily were utterly contemptible. A nest of grasping, power-hungry necromancers, skin-takers and vampiricals, their reputation and their practices utterly debauched and without a shred of conscience. _They were the sort of creatures that gave creatures of the night a bad bloody name. _

Molly opened Holmes' letter, read the plea contained therein from Lady Smallwood. That the woman had recommended her gladdened her heart, considering all that Molly's method had put her through. And yet here was another case, another family asking for her to save one of their own. Another heartbreak, possibly, which she would get to watch first hand. Inwardly Molly argued with herself, tallying up her fee and factoring in how much more difficult this case had just become: if the Golden Lily had taken in Holmes' brother then getting him back would not be easy. They wouldn't give their thralls up to anyone save, perhaps, the Chatelaine of the Northlands, to whom Molly also answered- And with whom Molly had so recently quarreled.

_And yet- _

Her eyes went back to the portrait, and thence to Mr. Holmes.

_She remembered Lord Smallwood's grateful smile, the last time she had been in his home. _

"Have the Silverblades managed to procure him?" she asked and Holmes nodded.

"Your Chatalaine saw to it," he answered. "I am in her debt… Her very great debt…"

"And I'm sure she'll make sure that you pay her back," Molly said wryly. She didn't feel it wise to pry into what, exactly, this mortal had promised her Mistress in order to secure her help, but at least she knew that the human she was supposed to be healing had been extracted from his Keeper through the right channels. She had no wish to be burned out of another practice because one of her clients had decided to up and do things their own (asinine) way.

"So," Holmes prompted, "Will you take the case?" He gestured to the portrait again. "As you may have ascertained, my family is not without resources, and we have the cooperation of your own Chatalaine. Merely name your price, and I will be happy to pay it- Should it take me to penury, I would not care."

Molly, however, knew it wasn't so simple as a matter of money and it would be best if she acquainted Mr. Holmes with this fact.

"First," she said, "I must meet my patient. Should I feel that I can help him then I will name a fee, and begin his treatment." She made sure to meet Holmes' gaze, her voice turning harder. _This was the part mortals found hard to understand. _"If, however, I feel that I can't help him then I will tell you as much," she said, "and help you ease his suffering as best I can for however long he has. That is all I will be able to do." She looked at Holmes. "Do we have an accord, sir?"

The ancient words rung out, weighted with import and tradition.

Though he looked put out, the human nodded tightly.

"We do, Doctor Hooper," he said quietly. "And I thank you for your honesty. I have my carriage ready to take you to the family home, that you may meet my brother- Is that amenable to you?"

Molly nodded sharply and rose. Picked up her coat and slid it onto her shoulders. The rain outside might not bother a creature such as she, but it was best with clients to ape the mannerisms of the living as much as possible.

It seemed to help them when introducing one to their relatives, as she well knew.

So, following Mr. Holmes she made her way out of her practice and into the rain, hopping into the elegant carriage awaiting her. With a nod to his driver the carriage took off into traffic, the jolt of the horses' hooves pleasingly monotonous amid the hubbub of the traffic, Molly's mind already turning over her plan of attack for the case which awaited her-

* * *

While across town, in his family townhouse, Mr. Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes for the first time in several days and started yelling yet again to be returned to his Keeper.

"Tell Mycroft he can bugger off and mind his own business!" He huffed, "Just give me back to Irene-"

And he was still yelling it when Molly reached his cell.

Fortunately for him, however, he was also far too far away for his Irene to hear.


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: _This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by MizJoely. Be aware, the smutty mcsmutness starts here. You have been warned.

* * *

**THE DOSE MAKES THE POISON **

_**Chapter Two**_

* * *

_The townhouse of Mycroft Holmes _

_The Blue Bedroom _

_One Hour Later_

_He was older than she expected, _that was the first thing Molly thought when she saw him.

When Molly had seen the portrait of her patient, she had assumed he was in his early twenties. It was, after all, more likely than not, given that his stay in the Demi-monde hadn't yet killed him or turned him into something inhuman.

_Most young aristocrats who meddled with the occult- and survived- grew out of it by the time they came of age. _

But the man in front of her, exotically handsome though he might be, was clearly in his early thirties. Though cuffed to his bed with heavy irons, he seemed unbowed. Mature. His body showed the heft and strength of one already fit and able, and his face was tracked with slight laughter lines, his coal black hair showed telltale silver hairs. They made him look somehow… grounded, despite his peacocking, strangely affecting loveliness. Though his eyes were slightly bloodshot they likewise showed a fierce intelligence, and as they met her own Molly was forced to swallow back a small shudder of hunger, of _want_, at the way they flashed kingfisher-blue in the room's dim light-

Suddenly she could understand with extraordinary clarity just why he had been taken. A man such as this would catch any creature's eye, let alone a vampire of The Golden Lily.

_He was absolutely, positively blazing with life. _

"You're staring," the man drawled, looking irritatingly smug. "Sorry to break it to you, Madame, but I am already spoken for."

"I doubt that." And before he could speak, Molly used her unnatural speed to flash to his bedside, the effect making it appear as if she simply popped out of existence in one spot and into existence in another. It was a common enough trick, but she wanted to see how her potential patient would react: despite an involuntary gasp of alarm from Mycroft said patient said nothing, merely narrowed his eyes. Grinned more widely.

_The scent of his arousal on the air, however, belied his apparent indifference. _

"So," Molly said, her eyes trained on her patient's. "You like vampires." It wasn't a question. Nevertheless she couldn't help a small smirk of her own as she let a finger slide to his pulse point, testing its beat. It was steady- thready but insistent against her skin. It hummed to her like a lullaby, enticing. Coaxing. Flirting. It felt like it was calling to her. "Don't try to deny it, Mr..?"

"Call me Sherlock." The younger man threw a look at his brother, who rolled his eyes in annoyance but remained silent. "And I wouldn't dream of denying it." Another smirk, his voice turning flirtatious. "I'm actually rather proud of it, you know..."

"No doubt." Molly ignored his tone (despite how lovely that deep baritone sounded to her ears), continuing to check his pulse. It was growing quicker at her touch, and the arousal on the air was likewise growing stronger. "Sherlock I shall call you, then," she added, "for however long you and I are to spend together."

And before Sherlock could answer she moved away, taking out her notebook and jotting down some quick observations.

Her memory was perfect, of course, but she found that a doctor writing things down seemed to put mortals at their ease.

_It also helped with the coroners' reports. _

Certainly, it worked on Mycroft: for the first time he relaxed slightly, as if feeling he were on familiar ground. Sherlock, however, scowled petulantly, as if he too was familiar with being looked over by doctors.

_Interesting, _Molly mused. _No doubt there's a story there that I have yet to hear. _

Continuing to ignore both men she jotted down her initial thoughts: clearly the patient was fond of vampirical company, and the quickness of his arousal indicated that at least some of that fondness was chemical in nature.

_In this, he was not unusual; all humans had __**some**_ _reaction to her kind. _

He was not, however, malnourished from a lack of human food, nor did he seem overly dependent upon vampire's blood: Had he been, the moment she stepped into the room he would have begun begging her to return him to his Keeper in order to get his fill. Molly could already tell he hadn't been physically branded, it would have been obvious the moment she made contact with his skin, and that _was _good news: Vampirical brands were designed to warn other vampires away, and indicate who thralls belonged to. Sherlock possessing one would make him as good as undead already, and no amount of his brother's money would change his fate. _The process, once begun, could not be undone. _But given that he was without a brand, Molly mused, she might still be able to help him…

_Imagine what it might be like to have him help __**you**__, _her hunger whispered, for the first time in a long time. _How long has it been since you've fed, properly fed? How long has it been since you've had a human want to please you and only you..? _

With difficulty Molly pushed the thought, ignoble as it was, away. No wonder The Golden Lily wanted him, if this was the effect he had on so controlled a creature as she. But she would not betray her calling, she told herself, she would not dishonor her sweet Gregory's lonely fate. _She was not in the business of making mortals into thralls, _she reminded herself sharply, _she was in the business of helping thralls break free of their Keepers_…

So, snapping her notebook closed she turned her attention back to her patient. His effect in her was her own problem, she would not make it his. "When was the last time you had blood?" she asked briskly and again Sherlock's arousal scented the air, his tongue darting out to wet his lip. Her eyes flicked pointedly down to his crotch and there was a slight tenting of the fabric in the region of his hips. At seeing this, Mycroft's face turned bright red.

_Apparently the elder Holmes brother hadn't quite grasped just how much his sibling liked vampires until now. _

When Sherlock noticed Molly's aze he shifted uncomfortably though he did not pull away. "Two weeks ago," he said, his voice trying for bravado and just missing it. Redness stole across the paleness of his skin and Molly found it rather… fetching. Again, she pushed so ignoble a thought away. "Irene had intended to up my ration before the Silverblades stole me-"

"You're not a thing, Sherlock," Mycroft interjected irritably. "You cannot be, nor were you _stolen_-"

"I was." The younger man glared at his brother. "I never asked you to take me from my manor," he snapped. "I never asked for you to look in on me at all." His features formed into, of all things, another pout. "And I _was_ stolen, stolen from my home, stolen from my Keeper, my friends-"

"From everyone, in other words," Mycroft snapped, "who have made such sport trying to kill you-"

Sherlock bared his teeth. "You've nearly killed me enough time over the years, brother," he hissed. "You and Queen and country, not to mention sister dearest-"

Mycroft threw his hands up. "Don't you dare bring Eurus into this-"

"Enough." Molly's voice was sharp. _She had more pressing matters to consider than watching the Holmes brothers have a family spat._

Instead, holding her patient's gaze she took her thumb and pricked it on her left incisor, letting a drop of scarlet blood bubble up through her skin. She held it out to her patient, waiting to see what he would do. This was the moment of truth in her line of work: if he could drink from her she would be able to slowly wean him off his desire for vampire blood. It would require self control, and commitment, but she had done it before. If he could already only drink from _one_ vampire, however, then he was Bound to his Keeper and nothing would save him.

_He would be in thrall to that vampire, Molly knew, until he was either drained or turned, and that would be that. _

Sure enough though, Sherlock's gaze was drawn to that ruby drop of Molly's blood as if it were magnetized, his tongue once again darting out to lick his lips. The fabric converging his hips tenting even more pronouncedly. Colour swarmed his cheeks, their eyes meeting and (to her chagrin) Molly feared her cheeks could match his. His pulse scattered, skittered; Molly could hear it as he held his breath, eyes focused on the blood. On her.

It was all he could do, it seemed, to keep from shivering with want.

It was all she could do, not to shiver along with him.

"Leave, Mycroft," he muttered, voice deep. "You have no right to see this."

Mycroft shot her a look but she nodded, jerking her chin to the door.

_It would be for the best, _she told herself.

_She wouldn't let herself ponder why she didn't entirely believe that. _

"Believe me, Mr. Holmes," she said softly, "It would be easier for all concerned if you did not watch this. Family members often find it difficult, watching a loved one feed." Another glance at Sherlock, this time her voice hardening. "I assure you, this is merely a medical matter, but the patient deserves his privacy-"

"Very well." The elder Holmes looked like he would argue further, but at the last moment he seemed to change his mind; with a single curt nod at Molly he opened the door and strode out, leaving it slightly ajar. His footsteps only went as far as the end of the corridor, then stopped. Another door opened and closed, but that was far enough for Molly.

Holding Sherlock's gaze, she made a point of shutting the bedroom door fully.

As soon as she did so, some of the stress bled out of his frame and she told herself that she had made the right choice.

She turned her attention back to her patient: Sherlock's breathing was growing heavy, his heartbeat hammering louder. That little bubble of blood on her thumb was growing larger with every passing moment, threatening to track its way downwards from her thumb pad to spill across her palm.

_Molly refused to admit to herself that she might want it to. _

Rather, she held herself still. Forced her expression to remain neutral. Holding her gaze Sherlock opened his mouth in invitation. The tenting at his hip was growing more pronounced, and his eyes were hot and dark. Telling herself that this was a wholly medicinal, professional endeavour, Molly nevertheless slid her thumb between his lips. Pressed her bloody thumb pad down against his tongue.

_You have to find out how the patient reacts, _she reminded herself. _You have to. _

"Suck," she said quietly, her voice low in the stillness of the room. Coaxing.

She tried to tell herself that she, too, would not be breathing heavily, were she still in the business of doing so.

Sherlock gave a low, hungry, entirely delicious moan, his cheeks hollowing as he did what Molly bid and somewhere deep within her, the vampire felt her flesh begin to sing.

For he kept his eyes on hers. Kept himself close to her. With each draw of his mouth he thrust his hips lewdly against his sheets, aping the sexual act whilst appearing entirely unaware of it. Molly had to force herself not to move her hips in kind. The sight of his reaction was utterly carnal, utterly lewd. Utterly beautiful. Again Molly was reminded how blisteringly, thoroughly this man blazed with life. For he was delicious, exquisite. Beautifully wanton. His lips wrapped around her finger, his eyes staring boldly into hers. _It felt as if he were drinking the blood straight from her heart, and oh it had been a long time since anyone had done __**that**_. Suck and lick, suck and lick, he kept his eyes on Molly's, his mouth against her flesh. Suck and lick, suck and lick, he swallowed her blood as if she were a fine, sweet wine, as if she were the nectar of the gods. As if she were his. After a moment he pulled away, tongue following the trail of her blood down to lick and lap at her palm, the flesh of her wrist. His teeth graze her flesh and before Molly knew quite what was happening, all hell…

Well, all hell broke loose. There was no other way to describe it.

For suddenly she was no longer standing beside him, but straddling him in his bed. Suddenly she was no longer the staid, sensible vampirical specialist but a vampire in the rush of a hungering phase- _And she knew precisely whose blood she wanted to drink. _

It was years since Molly had fed this way and she found it exhilarating. Freeing. Wholly, utterly terrifying. Her nipples peaked against her chemise, mouth watering as she rocked against Sherlock. As she rutted harshly into him. As she raked her fingers through his hair and yanked his head back to kiss. _She wanted him so much and she wanted him right __**now. **_

His body was hard, warm, wonderful, everywhere it touched her own. _He felt so deliciously alive. _Pulling away from his kiss she forced her thumb more sharply into his mouth and watched his throat work as he drank her down again. He held her gaze, head tilting to the side, throat offered up for her approval. Her pleasure. Clearly, he wanted her to drink and oh but Molly would be happy to oblige him…

"Please, please, please," he kept crooning. "I need it... I'll do anything to earn it..."

"Anything?" She demanded.

Her voice was sharp and dark with want.

He nodded, expression blissful. Adoring. "Anything you want," he murmured. "Anything… Anything at all.." And he laid back languidly in the bed, lashes fluttering closed. Molly let her fangs slide out, felt the redness of hunger rising in her eyes. Her entire body was thrumming in eagerness, in anticipation of what she was about to do. Of what she wanted to do.

_Oh, but she was going to enjoy this. _

She leaned down, stroking her teeth along his throat and Sherlock practically purred, moaning into her ear. He gave another, "please, please, please…" even as he pulled against his chains and tried to wrap his arms around her. _It seemed he couldn't get close enough to her. _Without stopping to think Molly yanked the shackles from the bed frame, pulled them apart and tossed them lightly away. She let out a huff of pure pleasure when Sherlock's unencumbered arms locked tightly around her; pressing him harshly back on the bed she dove. Broke his skin and bit him, drinking her fill. His blood rushed out, bubbling up and filling her mouth, filling her senses and nothing, nothing, _nothing_ had ever tasted so good. _God, she could drink from him forever. _Climax began to build within her, lust and hunger and need rolling together until she and he were just a ball of heady, wicked, entirely unstoppable pleasure-

"Yes," he kept moaning, "yes, please, yes…"

_More, _Molly's body sang, _more, more, __**more...**_

And then suddenly, suddenly, she was being pulled off of Sherlock.

Suddenly she was thrown to the other side of the room, hitting the bedroom wall with an almighty, deafening crack.

She crumpled to the ground like a rag doll.

There was a hiss of lightning, of smoke and then the bed, nay, the room, was split in two, Molly on one side, Sherlock on the other. The scent of magic spattered onto the air, vivid and stark as a lightning storm. Glittering, blazing letters appeared in the air before her, a badly drawn image of an apple appearing beside them, as well as an elegantly scrawled M.

_No poaching, _Molly read. _And no stealing from your betters, Hooper. _

And just as suddenly as the writing had appeared it disappeared, leaving Molly utterly confused and Sherlock moaning in pain. Leaving the room a shambles and the roof creaking as if it would come in. Sherlock moaned, his spine contorting with pain; Everything was too loud and too bright and Molly's body was screaming at her that she needed to start drinking again- That she needed to claim Sherlock again-

Which was, of course, when the bedroom door banged open and suddenly there was a silver blade at Molly's throat.


	3. Chapter 3

This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the wonderful MizJoely, for whom this is a gift (she knows why). Brace yourselves ladies- the thick is about to plotten...

* * *

**THE DOSE MAKES THE POISON **

_**Chapter Three**_

* * *

_The townhouse of Mycroft Holmes _

_The Blue Bedroom _

_1895_

"Explain yourself."

The voice was female, British, and it brooked no argument.

The silver blade its owner held to Molly's throat gleamed wickedly in the light.

Without thinking Molly yanked the woman holding the blade towards her, crushing her wrist easily in the process and then tossing her away- _She had to get to Sherlock- _

There were sounds behind her, running footsteps and then a man, short with a bristling blond moustache, was holding a crucifix in front of her and glaring at her, clearly blissfully unaware that religious symbols were of little protection against so old a creature as she.

_Why, that wouldn't have worked on her since at least Antioch. _

"Mary," the blond man called, gaze darting between Molly and the foolish human who had threatened her with silver. "Mary, my darling, can you hear me..?" Again he glared at Molly. "What the blazes have you done to her?"

The woman, blond too and wearing a heavy brocade traveling dress, sat creakingly up. She cradled her wrist gingerly. "Broken," she muttered to herself, and then, "Bitch," she said to Molly, making sure to enunciate through smilingly gritted teeth.

The vampire showed her fangs in answer. Went to move past her to her patient.

The blond man intercepted her, and only years of careful control kept Molly from attacking him outright. _Every vampiric instinct she possessed was urging her to do so. _Rather she hissed again, palm darting out to send him staggering smartly back even as the blond woman- Mary- got gingerly to her feet. The mortal braced herself beside her companion, taking the crucifix from him with her good hand but placing herself between Molly and her patient.

"Put that thing away, John," she said matter-of-factory, "It will take more than that to banish such as she from our home." She frowned. "Besides, we have more pressing concerns."

And she gestured towards the bed. The cracked, broken room. Magic still hung on the air, the scent of it almost as intoxicating as Sherlock's blood. Molly opened her mouth to snap a response but before she could Sherlock let out a low, guttural moan, his body once again twisting in agony.

"Let me through," Molly snarled. "He's my patient- He's in trouble-"

"I can see that," the blond man said coldly. "But you will keep away from him, Madame." To Mary. "I need my case," he said. "If we can staunch the bleeding-"

"You're a doctor?" Molly snapped. She didn't bother keeping the scorn from her voice.

"Yes." His tone showed how little he felt that title belonged to her. "And while I may not have your experience with inhuman monsters, _Doctor_ Hooper, I have been treating that idiot over there since we were mere boys.

I refuse to abandon him to the tender mercies of a common vampire."

As if to make his point he gestured to Mary. "Watch her, and _I_ will fetch my case," he snapped, rising and padding to the door. Making sure to hand the woman her discarded silver knife before he left. Though her instincts were snarling at her to rid herself of his interference and get back to Sherlock, Molly forced herself to say nothing. She had to remain calm, she reminded herself. Rational. _No good could come from behaving like the monster they clearly thought her to be_. The scent of Sherlock's blood was thick on the air, sweet and intoxicating, but she couldn't let herself dwell on it: If she could smell him bleeding, that meant he was still in danger of death through blood loss. That would have to be stopped.

_And he was a lot more likely to live, _she was forced to admit, _were she kept out of close proximity to him. _

She was clearly untrustworthy, where he was concerned.

So she pulled back, gritting her teeth. Curled her hands into fists at her sides. Trying to ignore the way Sherlock's blood was singing, golden and intoxicating, through her body. Through the air. Trying to ignore the way her senses were hungering for more, clamoring for him. _God, she'd only had a taste, _she thought, _and look at what it did to me. Was this what The Golden Lily saw in him? Was that why this "M," had warned her against poaching? _

But such questions would have to wait for another time, she told herself. Sherlock was her priority right now. John was only gone for a moment, returning with a familiar case rather like her own; as she watched he checked Sherlock's wound, muttering to himself. Pressing his hand to his neck and trying to staunch the bleeding, loudly asserting that his friend was an idiot all the while.

Sherlock's eyes opened slightly, a groggy smile on his face. "Bet you say that to all the handsome fellows," he murmured, before being wracked by pain again.

His spine arched as if he were being electrocuted. It hurt Molly to see.

"Bloody Hell!" John snapped, seemingly uncaring of the presence of women. "I swear to high heaven," he muttered, "that you will be the death of me, Sherlock Holmes." He gave a terse gesture to Mary and the woman reached in the chiffarobe beside the bed, pulling out an old linen shirt. At another nod she reached into the medical bag and pulled out a jar of something pungent, the stench of which made Molly want to gag.

She began smearing it on the shirt, grinning darkly when she saw its effect on Molly.

"Saint Alice's Salve," she said. "Not really good for your lot, is it?"

Molly gritted her teeth. "No," she allowed. _That salve wasn't good for her kind at all. _"Be careful how much of it you put on," she added, unable to keep the annoyance from her voice. She suspected the mortals had little idea how dangerous their medicines were. "If any vampire blood is still in his system," she continued, "then that salve may react badly to it- You might hurt your friend without meaning to-"

"Be quiet." Clearly John was no longer interested in hearing from an expert in the field. Nevertheless, Molly noticed that Mary wiped some of the excess salve away, applying it carefully to Sherlock's throat. It hissed, bubbling here and there where it made contact with some of his blood, but at least it wasn't everywhere. And at least it didn't seem to be hurting him as much as it could have. As the bubbling subsided, Mary pressed the shirt more fully to the wound, and mercifully it stopped bleeding. It also allowed Sherlock to stop jerking about like a marionette on a string.

Molly closed her eyes and offered up a murmured prayer of gratitude.

John blinked at her, surprised perhaps at hearing a creature of darkness pray. Molly shot him a dark smile. "I have been praying," she said, "for longer than this country has had a parliament." Her eyes were drawn to Sherlock, finally silent. Finally peaceful. She wished to touch him, but she knew that she should not. Rather she drew herself up to her full height.

_The difficulties of the night were just beginning,_ she thought grimly.

"I must speak to Lord Holmes," she said. "He needs to be appraised of the situation- And he will need to be given a list of my possible replacements."

Again, John blinked in surprise. Mary's mouth hung open for a moment before she too recovered, shutting it with an audible snap.

_Their disbelief dragged at Molly's last nerve. _

"Did you think I would not take responsibility," Molly inquired tersely, "for the gross lapse of judgement which I have indulged in tonight? Did you think I would continue in my role, considering what I just did to my patient?" She glared at her audience. "Good God, what sort of doctor do you take me for?"

"The vampire kind." This from Mary, but there seemed to be less venom in her voice than previously. The mortal woman was eyeing Molly speculatively. She opened her mouth to say something but before she could another voice sounded, male this time (and startled). It was coming from down the hall.

In fact, it was coming from the room into which Mycroft Holmes had so recently secreted himself.

With ominous suddenness the stench of magic inside the room turned suffocating.

The two humans' eyes met- "Mycroft," they hissed- and with a terse chuck of his head John indicated Mary should investigate. Knowing that she could do little here- and that if something magical were about thane she was better able to deal with it than an irritating, _injured _human, Molly followed close on her heels.

Perhaps being away from Sherlock would help clear her head.

The two women raced down the corridor, Mary at the lead, only to stop in front of the open door behind which Mycroft had so recently disappeared. The room beyond lay in shambles, Mycroft hanging in midair, eyes shut and body jerking just as his brother's had. Sparks of magic, sharp and bright, were flickering around him and on the air there was another shining apple drawn, another M. The floor of this room was also cracked in two. A young woman in a midnight blue evening dress was circling Holmes, chanting in what sounded to Molly like Medieval French and making complicated gestures with her fingers- Fingers that were likewise covered in Saint Alice Salve, Molly realized-

"What the-" she started, but Mary hushed her.

"Anthea can't be interrupted," she said. "Whatever she is trying to save her husband from, she will not be helped by our interference." Another assessing look. "And while Mykey may not agree with her interest in the occult, nobody can claim that he would find a better helpmeet or savior-"

"Agreed." Molly could already tell by the speed with which the young woman was working, as well as the ferocious concentration on her face, that she was formidable indeed. _And magic must be met by magic, everyone knew that._ There was literally nothing more that could be done for Lord Holmes than what was already in progress but even though she knew that, Molly could not help the frustration which rose in her at the thought- Damn, but she wanted something to set her teeth into-

Which was, naturally, when her wish was granted- In the worst possible way.

* * *

Dum dum duuuummmm! What could be next, hmm?


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer: _This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Written for the lovely MizJoely, and beta read by her- Though all mistakes are, of course, my own. And now, onward!

* * *

**THE DOSE MAKES THE POISON **

_**Chapter Four**_

* * *

It happened remarkably quickly.

One minute Molly was standing beside the elder Holmes, gritting her teeth and trying to conjure some way to help either his wife or Mary save him. The next she was being drawn towards him, as if to a lodestone. Sparks of magic reached out, tangling around her. Burning her. The pain of it was extraordinary: it felt as if her very bones were being prised apart, as if the blood in her veins were being leeched out through her skin-

The more she pulled against it, however, the more painful things became.

Through it all, she swore she could hear high, mocking male laughter.

With gritted teeth Molly pulled herself backwards, trying with all her vampiric strength to thwart the magical force being exerted on her. It seemed to be useless, however; feet dragging along the expensive carpet, she continued to be hauled towards the elder Holmes, both his wife and Mary apparently too distracted by the spectacle in front of them to notice her plight. Mycroft still hung aloft, his face a rictus of agony, his arms and legs cinched painfully apart. Red and gold seeped through his veins, turning them visible; surrounded by a cage of reddish orange energy, he was clearly screaming and yet he seemed unable to make himself heard-

When Molly tried to scream she realized that she couldn't make her voice heard either.

_Somehow she doubted that it was a coincidence. _

Lady Anthea was circling him, sweat staining her brow as she gesticulated and muttered, trying to break whatever force had been used to ensnare her husband. Molly could tell, however, that she wasn't winning this battle; though she practically crackled with power and concentration, the energy field in which her husband was caught- and into which Molly was being dragged- wasn't dissipating. In fact it seemed to be getting stronger. Harder. _More powerful. _At its center, something was now glowing, something pinprick-small but growing larger- _It looked, ominously, like some sort of monstrous __**maw-**_

With a last, monumental effort Molly managed to grasp Mary's uninjured arm. The blond woman turned to her, doubtless about to snarl some invective, but one look at her told the woman that something was wrong.

To her credit, she grasped Molly's waist with her good hand, trying to keep her from moving forward.

"John," she bellowed, "John, I need you _immediately_-"

Molly heard the sound of a slammed door. Heavy, booted footsteps, running along wooden floors.

It was not merely Mary's husband who answered, however.

For, staggering, slipping, _barely able to stand_, Sherlock Holmes nevertheless skidded into the room at John's heels, his shoulders hunched and his face gaunt. He was wearing naught but a bedsheet and that bloodied shirt; they made him look as if he were wearing a burial shroud. Some blood still stained his throat, and he looked- _well, he looked like he had recently been ravaged by a hungry vampire_.

Were Molly not otherwise engaged she felt sure she wouldn't be able to look him in the eye.

The life or death situation in which she found herself made such maidenly protestations mercifully unnecessary, however. Rather she gestured towards he and John, asking them silently to join Mary in keeping her from the bubble of magic in which Mycroft was trapped. They did so, one of them grabbing her arm and the other her waist. As they did this Molly watched the blood which stained Sherlock's throat bubble, then rise from his skin. It floated towards the magical field, drawn to it as surely as she was.

_Whatever that magical thing was, _she thought, _it was clearly hungry for Sherlock's blood, too. _

John, Mary and Sherlock saw it too and to her surprise and horror the younger Holmes muttered something to John which she couldn't catch. Took the thin shirt in which he was shrouded and scraped some of the Saint Alice's Salve from it before reaching for her face. Molly instinctively jerked away from it but he insisted, pressing his large, long-fingered hand to her cheek. Murmured softly that it would help. That it would save her.

"Let me," he muttered, "Let me help you, honeyblood…"

Despite his impertinence, it worked: As soon as the salve made contact with Molly's skin, the power which had been clutching at her let her go. Agony lit up her skin wherever the salve made contact with it, but at least it was the sort of agony with which she was already familiar. _She had been dosed with Saint Alice's Salve before. _With a gasp she dropped to the ground, her body shaking, the makings of blood-tinted tears shivering at her eyes: it had been centuries since she had allowed herself to be harmed thus and it would be centuries, she silently swore, before she permitted it to happen again-

"Thea," Sherlock was calling to Lady Anthea now. "Thea, the salve- use the salve that Mary brought-"

"She can't listen, Sherlock." Mary spoke over him. "She's the only thing that's holding back whatever's harming your brother."

"Use this, then." The words were John's, as he pressed his jar of salve into Sherlock's hand. His smile was hard. "The dose makes the poison, remember? I'll cover you."

"Indeed." A cocked eyebrow. "Vatican cameos, eh?"

"Vatican cameos."

And Sherlock straightened his shoulders. Drew himself up. With a look of ragged determination he began walking towards the magical field.

As he got closer to it, he too started being pulled forward, but the effect was a great deal weaker than it had been on Molly and Mycroft.

_He also seemed a lot less confused by what was happening, Molly couldn't help but think, and oh but she didn't like_ _**that **__notion. At all. _

Nevertheless, she kept her peace. There would be time for words later, and plenty more besides. Closer Sherlock got, closer and closer. Mycroft's eyes went to him, their expression horrified and desperate that he pull away, but the younger Holmes didn't seem to care. "This was not part of the wager, Irene," he muttered to himself, one salve- covered hand reaching out and grasping his brother's ankle. His hand disappeared beneath Mycroft's trouser-leg, making contact with bare skin and for the first time the magical field around Mycroft started to shudder. Shift.

The mocking laughter which Molly had heard also abruptly came to a halt.

Sherlock pulled, his strength belying his beleaguered physical state, and as he did so he forced the open jar of salve towards his brother. The glue-like grey substance spattered against his skin. His suit. Magic sparked, hissed, but Sherlock didn't stop; when he had Mycroft on the ground he scooped another handful of the salve out of its jar and slashed it over his brother's eyes. His mouth. His nose.

Mycroft sputtered and coughed, inhaling the salve, and immediately the magical field disappeared. All it left behind was the usual, acrid taste of magic, stark on the air as the remains of a lightning strike.

With a gasp of relief Lady Anthea stopped muttering, running to her husband and throwing her arms around him. Kissing him passionately through the salve even as he feebly protested that such behavior wasn't proper in front of Molly, or, indeed, anyone else.

"Shut up and let me kiss you, you bloody fool," was the only retort he got. That, and more kisses.

_In fairness, it didn't seem to Molly that he was trying terribly hard to fend them off. _

Still shuddering, the vampire got to her feet, her eyes following Sherlock as he began to edge back from the scene and towards the door-

"I wouldn't do that, dearheart."

Mary said the words before Molly could, the human woman moving to block the door to Mycroft's room and, Molly suspected, Sherlock's escape attempt.

_Her opinion of the human woman grudgingly went up a notch. _

_She also couldn't help the- entirely irrational- sense of disappointment that Sherlock was trying to run away from her. _

Something flashed in Sherlock's eyes as he looked at Mary, something fierce and piercing, but when he spoke his voice was calm- Suspiciously so. _If she hadn't suspected there was a story between them before, Molly was absolutely bloody sure of it now. _

"I don't know what you're talking about, Mary," he muttered sharply. A shark-like smile slit his face. "And oughtn't you be seeing to your darling husband, hmm?"

He jerked his head sharply in John's direction but rather than sounding hurt Mary merely rolled her eyes. Shook her head at him.

"I can still tell when you're fibbing, Sherlock," she said. This time it was Mary's turn to smile. "So why don't you tell us about this wager you had with Irene Adler, and what precisely it _was_ supposed to cover, eh?" Another, sharper smile. "Do that, and I'll be happy to detail the passions of my marriage, dearheart."

For a moment anger flashed in Sherlock's eyes, hurt too. Molly could catch the scent of both, floating on the air. But then-

"Quite," Sherlock said. He held out an arm to Molly and turned his back on the two humans, causing her to cock an unimpressed eyebrow and prompting John to snort something about God granting him patience. "Coming, honeyblood?" Sherlock said to Molly, but the vampire walked around him and towards the door.

"Don't worry," Molly told John and Mary, "I'll make sure he behaves himself."

Sherlock strutted by her as he left the room, his voice slick against the shell of her ear. "That's what you think… honeyblood," he said softly, before sweeping by her and padding back to his room.

Somehow he managed to even make his back look smug, as he walked away.

Molly followed swiftly, her eyes on him the entire time and if she could still feel his blood thrumming through her veins then what of it?

Something told her that was far from the most dangerous thing she would encounter tonight.


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer: _This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Written for the lovely MizJoely, and beta read by her- Though all mistakes are, of course, my own. And now, onward!

**THE DOSE MAKES THE POISON **

_**Chapter Five**_

_He was going to kill Irene_, Sherlock mused.

_Or at least he would, were she not already extremely dead. _

At the thought he gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the slight limp and overall exhaustion which his little jape had earned him. _God, but he hated being mortal- Was it any wonder he wished himself rid of it? _

Behind him he could hear John and Mary chattering but he elected to ignore it: seeing them together was no easier now than it had been when they first started courting, and he had no reason to suppose that would ever change-

_Mary had made her choice, _he reminded himself darkly. _He would just have to live with it. _

As he thought this that old, familiar dart of heartbreak pierced his chest and rather than dwell on the pain he redoubled his pace.

Doctor Hooper's gaze felt heavy on his back as he did so, the feel of her blood still singing beneath his skin. He wouldn't let himself dwell on that though, or on her. Something within him saw a danger in her, a danger which even Irene had never seemed to project- _In fact, more than anyone else she reminded him of Mary and absolutely no good could come of admitting __**that**__. _

So once he was suitably ensconced back in the Blue Bedroom he made a show of lounging on his bed- Or, getting as close to lounging as he could given the state he was in. Mary watched him with cynical, unamused eyes, Doctor Hooper with coldness_\- Strange, since there was little cold about the vampiress, as he could now attest…_

Nevertheless she said nothing, merely waiting, hands clasped modestly before her, eyes averted pointedly from the bed in which she had so recently- and so thoroughly- ravished him.

She looked as pious as a saint.

Irritated by that piety, Sherlock shifted himself so that he was lying in the exact spot on which she had drunk from him and shot her his most lascivious smile. His most suggestive laugh. Judging by her disgruntled expression, she was far from impressed while John, being John, rolled his eyes heavenward and prayed for patience-

_Some things, _Sherlock mused, _never changed. _

And as if to underline his thought, Mary moved to perch at the end of his bed as she had so many times before, her blue eyes dancing. "Sherlock, darling," she said dryly, "could you stop posing for your sweetheart and answer my questions, please?"

Irritated, he sat up, then winced at the motion. "You're no fun," he pouted, to which Mary snorted. Another thought. "And Hooper is _not_ my sweetheart."

Mary snorted again and again John rolled his eyes. Sherlock felt that familiar stab of pain in his chest, an unwelcome reminder of all that he had lost. "As you say," Mary was grinning. "But we both know I'm tremendous fun, don't pretend I'm not. And once you explain yourself, I will be happy to leave you to Doctor Hooper here's tender, loving care…"

"You will?"

Both Sherlock and John spoke the same words at the same moment, the latter horrified, the former intrigued. Mary turned her attention to John and Sherlock scowled: He could practically feel the weight of Hooper's interest in his reaction. "Whatever your feelings about her kind, darling," Mary was saying to John, "you cannot claim that Doctor Hooper didn't save our friend tonight- Or that she will not make a better guardian than either of us, with magic on the loose in this house."

Hooper inclined her head curtly at the compliment; John's moustache practically bristled with indignation and again, just for a moment, things felt like old times.

The thought made Sherlock's chest ache even more hollowly.

"But she's a-" the doctor broke off, glancing nervously at Molly who merely cocked a caustic eyebrow.

"Go on," Hooper said. Sherlock snorted and she turned that weighty, wicked gaze on him once more. Despite himself, he felt his cock twitch in his smalls and the realisation discomfited him a great deal more than he wished to allow.

_Not even Irene had ever managed to drive him to that, _he thought. _**Intriguing. **_

_That it had happened in Mary's presence surprised him even more. _

Perhaps Hooper smelled his arousal on the air, perhaps some other preternatural ability warned her, but the vampiress drew further from him. Dropped her gaze.

There were nuns who looked less carnal than she did now, and for some reason he found that too irritated him deeply.

_He didn't want her looking like anything other than the glorious monster she was. _

"Mr. Holmes is not safe with me," Hooper was saying stiffly, her eyes on the Watsons. "You yourself have seen that-"

"And yet, he wants you here," Mary said. "Don't take my word for it- I'm sure he'll be happy to show you later." A smaller, sharper smile. "Once, as he promised, he explained precisely what this wager with Irene was about." At her words Sherlock pouted again and she grinned beatifically. "Surely you didn't imagine I'd forget, did you?"

The words hissed of his mouth without thought, sharp as shrapnel. "Well, forgetfulness _is_ one of your talents, isn't it, Mrs Watson?"

The tone was ugly, the desire to hurt unmistakable; Immediately John was on his feet, glaring at his former best friend in anger. Just for a second, a mere moment, Sherlock had the satisfaction of seeing his jibe hit home, of watching pain bloom in Mary's eyes, and then it was gone.

What it left in its wake was not satisfaction however, but an odd, listless sort of disgust with himself. It left him weary- Heart-sick- _But then it always did. _

Despite himself, he found his gaze drawn to Hooper, who was staring hard at him but while she met his eyes without difficulty, his own skittered away.

Mary, being Mary, said nothing at all.

"Fine!" He snapped dramatically, turning his expression martyred. Better that, than explaining or, heaven forbid, apologizing. _He was done baring his heart, to Mary or John. _"It was a little joke," he began, knowing the choice of word would infuriate John further. "We thought- Irene and I- that it would be fun to see if we could smuggle something into Mycroft's house, knowing that he would try to steal me." He gave Hooper his slowest, most lewd smile. The one which had gotten him over the threshold and into The Golden Lily Mansion in the first place. The one which had gotten him so much that he wanted in his life. _God, but he hated it. _"After all, Lady Anthea is so very proud of all her wards, and hexes, and cantrips, and what not, that we thought it might be a lark to knock her down a peg-"

"So you endangered your brother."

The words were Hooper's, the tone Arctic.

Despite himself, Sherlock again felt his cock twitch in arousal at the harshness of her judgement: This time, though she clearly noticed she did not look away and that, oh that just made him harder.

If she knew or cared about his reaction, however, the vampiress gave no sign.

"Once a magical pathway is opened into a home," she continued, "it often can't be closed again. Anything can come in or out- But then you knew that, didn't you?" She shook her head, disgust in her eyes. "Foolish, thoughtless creature, to endanger all you love."

"Well now you're just flirting." Sherlock crossed his arms, defensive though he had no wish to be. He had heard some such thing, but he didn't see why it was such a problem: Everyone knew just how formidable Anthea was, and she would tilt the world off its axis before she let harm befall Mycroft. He and Irene had just been having a little fun, nothing more- And if it were to cause a little chaos then what of it?

_Surely it was his due, given how much the world had taken from him recently? _

He could see that Hooper wasn't impressed however, and that did irritate him, more than he wanted to admit.

Suddenly he found himself explaining, and justifying, two things he hadn't done in quite some time, and that he liked not at all.

"It was just a lark," he reiterated. "A joke. A wager. I bet Irene that there wasn't enough Holmes blood left in me to put a spell on, and Irene merely wanted to prove to me that such was not the case-"

That he had been on his back, buried balls deep in Adler at the time and panting like a whore while Jamie fed him blood had, perhaps, made him more susceptible to agreement than he might otherwise have done, but it would be too much like common sense for Sherlock to admit to _that_.

"So you allowed her to attach a magical trap to you," Hooper snapped, her tone disbelieving.

When _she _said it, Sherlock could allow that it sounded asinine.

"You allowed her to turn you into a Trojan horse," the vampiress continued, "one specifically designed to track your own kin, to allow magic to be used on them."

She began to pace, her steps quick and angry. With every step she seemed more like a preternatural creature, the pretense of mortality dropping away like wax from candle flame.

_It was beautiful to behold. _

"Did it not occur to you what damage this might cause?" Hooper continued, stalking towards him. "Did it not make you curious why exactly a vampire coven might want the power to enchant the blood of a powerful man, to invade the inside of a powerful witch's home?"

Sherlock forced himself to his feet, forced himself right into her space. He would not be snapped at, lectured to, not even by one such as she.

"It. Was. A. Joke," he snarled. "It's not like anyone was in any danger-"

"Did you brother look like he was safe when you found him?" Hoper snapped. "Did it look like I wasn't in any danger, when that whatever-it-was that we just defeated was trying to drag me in too?" She braced her hand on his chest, pushed him onto his back and onto the bed. This close he could see her fangs shivering out, could see how angry she was and thus, how close she was to losing control.

_Sweet saints, but he wanted her to… _

"Magic is not the realm of mortals," she was saying. "Magic is not the sort of thing with which one plays. And magic is precisely what you have tainted yourself with, something which I doubt even I can help purge you of-"

There might be more, more judgement, more words, more anger, but before she could say anything else Sherlock leaned forward and grabbed her, pulling her to him and stopping her words with a kiss-

Which was precisely when he realized just what a dangerous situation he was now in.


End file.
